Casualty
by calebaren
Summary: Tony and Steve both know what it means to be a casualty. Of war. Of relationships. Of themselves. Steve/Tony I can't seem to stop writing these things , I hope something other than angst pops into my head. LOL PWP


**A/N: Still on the fence on making this longer... or not. Answer in reviews, guys!**

**A/N: The first section... was supposed to be the first part of a separate one-shot, then I realized, "oh, these two stories go together nicely, might as well shove them together. I have too many related-yet-separated fics anyway..." Chapter 2 coming soon, nonetheless.**

* * *

Four ounces of grain alcohol.

Two tiny pills of oxycontin.

A rolled cigarette of cannabis.

Some lives wouldn't unravel without stubborn resistence. Popularity and fame deterred and expedited such methods. Someone always watched, always patrolled, always on the look for something out of place. And everyone watched, patrolled, on the look for something to ridicule, to boost his or her own sense of self-importance. A tiny voice, the mental manifestation of his self-destructive tendencies usually taking on the visage of his father, guiding him on the road to oblivion—and infamy.

And he screamed a bit too loudly to ignore.

* * *

Tony came to his senses, quickly and silently. Everything hurt. Everything stung. Everything ached. And yet… he was happy. And that set off every alarm. Something was resting on his arm. Something warm, heavy, and uncomfortable, but not unwanted. Something quasi-familiar.

The sheets whispered as someone next to him shifted her (or his) weight. He felt the gentle tickle of hair as it nudged into his neck. The alarms screeched louder. Tony didn't sleep with the touchy-feely-needy-relationship-type girls. He slept with the get-off-once-and-never-have-to-see-again-type girls. But he didn't care, not this time. If it was a girl, anyway.

He shifted his shoulder slightly, a slight groan escaping from his mouth as the pain of such a small movement took him by surprise. He sensed the person next to him come alive.

"Tony?"

Tony coughed in surprise. It wasn't a hot girl. It wasn't even an ugly one. It was a guy. Oh, Steve, why do you always end up in the most awkward positions?

"Damn it, you're not that hooker from Montana," Tony rasped, throat hoarse from… something he couldn't quite recall. He tried to keep the anger and confusion out of his voice, but it snuck in nonetheless. Tony met Steve's bright blue eyes, glaring slightly. "So, tell me, Cap, why are you sleeping in my bed, while I'm fully clothed and I feel like I really pissed off our resident timebomb?"

"I—you, last night—um…"

Tony laughed. Dammit, he was cute when he stuttered. Just don't ever say that to his face. Steve looked at Tony confusedly, then rolled over. "You drank yourself into a stupor. I put you to bed. You grabbed onto my arm and didn't let go. I didn't want to force you off, so I just stayed the night," he spoke, trying (but failing) to conceal his blush, which had migrated from his cheeks all the way down to his neck. Tony frowned.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because—because… you were damaged, Tony." His frown deepened.

"What happened last night?"

"I told you, you—"

"I haven't done such a thing for months. What _happened_?"

Steve sighed.

"Pepper left."

The pain flooded back. Pepper handing Tony a resignation letter and a sweet kiss on the forehead, walking away from a damaged man standing forlornly in the rain, clutching a sheet of paper that would destroy him, along with four parting words. _I can't help you_. Tears flooded unbidden to his eyes, and he struggled to contain them, to hide them from Steve. Tried, but failed. Steve glanced over, rolled back over to Tony and used his thumb to gently wipe away Tony's tears. Such a display of friendship—or something a little _more_ than friendship—sent Tony over the edge, wracking his body with heaving sobs with no sign of abating.

"I'm—sorry—Pepper—she couldn't—even—take—my—_goodbye—_"

Tony buried his face into Steve's shoulder, gripping onto his arm tightly, leaving little crescents of red welts where his fingernails dug into the impenetrable skin. The pain didn't seem to affect Steve, who simply patted Tony's back and tried not to let his emotions show.

After an eternity, the sobs seemed to stop, replaced by hiccups and heart wrenching shudders and gasps as Tony struggled to regain control of a world toppling around him. Pepper was stability. Pepper was his anchor. And Pepper was gone.

"S-Steve," he stuttered out.

"Yes?"

"Why are y-you here?"

"I told you—"

"But you h-hate me, Steve."

"Tony, I don't hate you, I'm just… frustrated with you sometimes, that's all."

"Don't con-d-descend me."

"No, Tony, I could never hate you."

Steve struggled for an answer.

"Because… you remind me of Howard too much to let go."

Tony stopped… whatever he had been doing, quiet rage and anger blotting out his self-pity. Oh, this. _This._

"Yes, my father," he spat out quietly, stutter completely gone, tears all used and dried up. "My _father,_ the great, eponymous Stark. _The _Stark, who no one seems to really know, except for me. Of course, you'd worship him, he who gave you _everything_. But he saved _none_ of it, you hear me, Steve? Not a _single—damn—thing_ for me!" His voice had rose from a rasp to something close to a shout. Steve's eyes shone bright and blue, eyebrows furrowed together.

"Now wait a minute—"

"The great Captain America, frozen for seventy years, comes back to find not _Howie_, but poor, little _Tony_, who couldn't for a second meet his father's expectations. Who climbed into bed with Tony, who tried to seem like he almost cared, but who failed _utterly_. Look at me now, _Steve_. I'm not Howard, no, I could never even come close to him. You could never _care _for me. So go fuck along and spare me of more, 'Howard did this' or 'Howard did that'. Because _I—AM—NOT—FUCKING—HOWARD!_"

His voice had definitely rose to a shout. Clint's sleepy voice drifted in through the intercom.

"Keep it down, ladies, we're trying to have sex here!"

Tony threw the covers off and strode into the bathroom. Steve tried to follow, but threw on his pants instead, as he was only wearing boxers and a white t-shirt.

"Tony, wait—" The door was slammed in his face. Tony shimmied out of his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning on the water. He felt the freezing water quickly transition to lukewarm, tolerable, then scalding water, but he didn't care. Steve pounded relentlessly on the door, asking, no _begging_ him to talk to him. And how Tony desperately wanted to, to let the pain of Howard, of Pepper, of Maria, of everything to disappear into the protective arms of Captain America. But he couldn't let any more damage to be done. He couldn't let him, or worse, _Steve_, be hurt. Because he couldn't pick up any more pieces of himself, then, and no one else would stick around to do it for any of them either.

He leaned back, hitting his head against the tiles, the now-comfortable water beating down on his face.

He wouldn't be another casualty. There have been too many of those lately.


End file.
